My Child
by Chronos Keeper
Summary: An encounter between Bishop Enrico Maxwell and Father Alexander Anderson. The offer to go on killing and never have to stop is met with an answer that confounds Enrico Maxwell.


Enrico settled himself down in the wooden chair proffered to him. He gracefully flung one long leg over the other and proceeded to take a cigarrette from his pocket and light it up. As the flame hovered in front of the tip of the paper, a crawling sensation engulfed him. His wide mouth pulled in at the corners, and his laguid eyes flicked up. Father Alexander Anderson was giving him a thunderously frowning look, one large index finger drumming a steady, disapproving beat on the table.

"Not in front of the children; you're setting a bad example, Enrico." Anderson's voice was level and calm, but was chiding him all the same. In a way, he knew that despite his position as bishop, that Anderson would always see him as the ambitious, belligerent child he had been when they first met. Enrico smiled diplomatically, throwing both hands away from him in the characrteristically dramatic way of his, and pinched the tip off, sliding it back into his pocket.

Anderson was in motion then. After he had seen Enrico settled, he moved with a ponderous sort of ease that was curious to watch. He had movements that looked heavy and assured, but were never rough. Well. At least not in this particular situation. Anderson deliberately poured some hot black tea into two cups, turning to set one down in front of Maxwell while he manuevered into another chair across from Enrico with his own cup and the sugar bowl. Enrico smiled as he recieved his, murmurring a thanks, and began to sip, forgoing formailties. He paused as Anderson dropped three cubes of sugar into his tea, and quirked an elegant eyebrow.

Anderson looked up from doctoring his tea, and then lent Enrico his characteristically wolfish smile. "I live with a pack of children, Enrico. I need my energy." His brogue roughened and lilted the words in their usual, comforting, beautiful way. He had always loved the way Father Anderson spoke, ever since he was a child. He had loved hearing him speak scriptures, and still did. The accent and feeling behind his voice lent so much of the spark missing from modern day Catholics.

He began without preamble, simply because he would never get to the point if he took an indirect route. "What if I told you there was a way you could comabt the monsters you defeat regularly? Not just called in on occassion to deal with some freak, but employed constantly, with each resting time solely for preparation of the next engagement? That you could fight forever, Anderson, and never have to stop? That you could give them all exactly what they've been deserving for the thousands of years they and their kind have existed? That you could _kill them all_." Enrico felt his voice resonate in his voice, the familiar tremble lace the undertones with the possibility of doing God's just work as it was meant to be done. His hand, which had been resting loosely on the table gradually turned, and pressed, his fingerstips making the wood beneath them squeal. He waited for the older, larger man's response, his pulse high with anticipation. Really, he shouldn't be getting so worked up, but it was a fascinating proposition...

Anderson looked up, and Enrico's feeling of built up anticipation froze coldly in his chest. Father Anderson looked incredibly tired, and very old. The corners of his wide mouth had pulled down, and his eyebrows had knit in an expression Enrico had barely ever seen. It was actually an expression he had seen constantly, having been around depictions of martyred suffering throuought his entire life, just almost never on Anderson. Once or twice, when he had lost a child to a disease or an injury. But not just because Maxwell had said something. So he was doubly surprised when Anderson's only response was a soft and flar, "No." The priest looked back down to the tea, and then took a long draught of it, not meeting Enrico's eyes when he brought it back down.

Enrico gave a little choke that was probably supposed to be a huff of surprise but his throat was too constricted that he couldn't get it out. "_Why_?" The word was small and held a note of plantive disbelief that was pathetic to hear.

Anderson looked back up, dually surprised at Enrico. "You think I enjoy it? Aye. Perhaps I do." He nodded at Enrico. "But it's a dark, black thing to feel when your soul twists up inside of you and you've got no control. That's the thing, Maxwell-" Anderson set down his cup, and leaned forward to look into the bishop's eyes, "I've never been able to control myself when I'm put into those situations. Granted, it's convenient enough. And it's a feeling like no other. But you'll never understand that loss of control that makes you less of a man and more of a rabid beast." He leaned forward further and twisted his head, his expression turning stony, and said lowly, "You'll never know."

Anderson sat back, sliding the cup toward him again. Heedless of Anderson's wish that he wouldn't set a bad example for the children, Enrico fished in his pocket until he found the cigarette and lit up again. It had been a passing fancy that Anderson could be bumped to full-time demon hunter, but it would have been a marvellously enhancing one. He shouldn't have been so sure on Anderson's bloodlust, after all. It seemed to come and go in spells.

"And besides." Anderson's voice was low and had a note of tenderness that made Enrico stop, and look up from coaxing his match to work. "I love my children too much." He met Enrico's gaze, and then looked back down, giving a sniff that was less of an indication of emotion and more of a habitual gesture. "What would they do without me? These children wouldn't have a father... I love my children. You can't me away from them." There was a note of pleading in Anderson's voice that struck Enrico to the quick. Well, damn. He loved Anderson too much to force him to do something that could well change the man forever, so he already knew that the point was over.

But still. Enrico was known for his dogged persitance. "But why?" He leaned back in his chair, long hair spilling over the back and getting caught in a knot of the wood. Turning his head so he could free the hank of hair, and feeling that his point was losing power over this ridiculously banal action, he asked, "Why spend your life coddling brats?"

An exasperated sigh from Anderson, and Enrico, still fighting with the chair, heard Anderson sipping on his tea and making it purr. "I like children, Enrico. Otherwise I wouldn't have put up with _you_ as long as I had." Enrico caught the note of gently needling humor and snorted at the back of the chair as he tried to work out how his hair managed to get tangled in such an abominably impossible way. He gave an exasperated gruff, letting his hair drop from his hands. Two large gloved hands appeared in his vision, and he reflexively looked up to see Anderson bending over his chair, an expression of gentle concentration etching across his lined face.

"Enrico, I'll never understand why you chose to grow your hair out to this length. It must be nigh impossible to keep." As Anderson spoke, he gently unwound the now frazzled hair from the wood, and freed it. He gave Enrico the dubious look a parent sends a child when they don't understand their notions. He straightened, and settled the glasses back onto his large, chilseled nose, scratching at an unshaven cheek absently.

Enrico threw his hands out again, mirroring Anderson's sentiment. He tossed back the dregs of the tea from cup, and stood. "What activities does your aftenoon hold, Father?" He felt he needed to ask, to return the situation to a little more normality. Give both he and Anderson a way out.

Anderson's eyebrows quirked, as he looked down to mull over the question. "I've got to take Abigail to the doctor's." Anderson's face twisted unhappily, before he continued. "The usual, I suppose. Schooling the children and making sure they're all fed. The like." He looked at Maxwell, searching the younger man's smooth face. "Did you really expect me to say yes?"

Enrico cough delicately, realizing his answer either way might hurt Anderson. Most of the time he would have answered with his usual blunt and short manner, but Anderson was wholly different. "Perhaps."

Anderson shook his head, giving a tongue cluck. "You're brilliant at evaluating people's uses, Maxwell. But abominable at realizing their emotions."

Enrico looked up, a wry smile sliding across his face. Anderson returned it, his green eyes tired. He pivoted to allow Maxwell access to the door, and thudded after him as Maxwell made his way to the path.

Maxwell was making his way down the path, when he heard Anderson say quietly, "Go with God, my child."


End file.
